The Goldfish
by ripple-icecream
Summary: Collection of short stories about Sherlock characters and their thoughts. What they see, how they see it, how they feel. (Reposting this on my own account )
1. Chapter 1

Note: I had previously asked a friend of mine to publish this story while I made myself an account on here. ^^

Mycroft Holmes lived in a "world of goldfish", to put it quite simply. It made everything very difficult. Stepping outside could sometimes prove quite laborious. These little goldfish had filled the world with nonsense and frivolous stupidities the same way one might fill a fish bowl with water. And it suffocated him, filled his lungs and nose and ears and made the outside world of the goldfish unpleasant and unattractive. And walking amongst these people was as straining as walking on the small coloured pebbles found at the bottom of a fish bowl. They just needed so much _room._ They walked around in cliques, had prams-those absurdly big ones that looked like minivans-and dogs that needed walking. Big dogs. He sometimes had to get off the sidewalk to let those fuzzy _horses_ walk by, trailing their owners behind them. Most unpleasantly of all were the geniuses who rode their bicycles on the side_walks_. And let's not forget the worst goldfish of all. Those who worry about having the prettiest pebbles, the cleanest water, the nicest little plastic scuba diver, the biggest….aquarium.

The number of times these little creatures had ruined his day was shocking to his eyes. In cafes, he couldn't sit comfortably. They sat in large groups, chattered, ate loudly. Worst of all were the young families. The baby would cry. The toddler would walk up to him and just stare at him. And he would stare back. What did this little one want? Often, he just wanted to kick Mycroft in the shins and run away. You couldn't really miss his shins, after all. He was a tall man.

He remembered the one time, in his early 20's, he had needed to take the bus home. The reason had long ago escaped him. It couldn't measure up to the terrible experience. It was raining that day, and the bus was full. Worse than goldfish. It was like sardines. And there was this man. The man had gotten on after him. He had sat down next to him. Firstly, he didn't smell quite nice. Secondly, he had _five_ different papers with him. He held them all awkwardly, as he read them one by one. His reading position made his being take up a lot of Mycroft's personal space. Then the bus stopped suddenly. All the papers fell. On Mycroft. And the man wouldn't let him pick them up. No, after slapping away Mycroft's hands, he dragged his up and down the poor young man, scooping up the papers, making noise, making Mycroft feel uncomfortable, giving them both many paper cuts. After this man had gotten off the bus, a middle-aged woman with a young child in her arms had sat down next to him. Mycroft had gotten off soon after. The child had just eaten. A lot. The way he had learnt that wasn't pleasant.

Of course, goldfish are not all bad. They could be quite interesting. Some good be good companions. He thought about his network. They followed orders quite well. Screw ups were very infrequent, almost totally nonexistent. Maybe he had found a rather large group of people who weren't nothing but goldfish. Maybe he had found some sharks. They could fire guns, drive fast cars, gather information, and eliminate unwanted presences. Yes, he thought, content with himself. He could keep good company. Well, company was a strong word for what these people were, but he could nonetheless be proud in the fact that he had good enough judgment to find them amongst the billions of dull ones that lived around him.

Some could bake cakes. Mycroft found pleasure in these delicious desserts. He was thankful that some people had worked hard to develop recipes and then bake the cakes. He did watch his figure, so he bought small cakes and only ate small pieces at a time. He reasoned, however, that a brain like his, that worked very hard, needed fuel. Brain fuel is sugar. Sugar is in cakes. Cakes are delicious. Yes. Good choice. And a new bakery had opened up near his residence. They had everything from simple lemon pound cake to interesting blueberry and lavender cake with butter cream frosting.

He liked this bakery. It was small and smart-no annoying clients elongating his wait time with their questions. Is this cake gluten-free? Does it have nuts? Do you have anything with alcohol in it? None of that. He could walk in, get his cake, and walk out. But not too quickly…

Maybe it was Sherlock's fault. Sherlock had become strangely sentimental. Maybe it had all rubbed off on him. He had been spending more and more time with brother dearest. It hadn't hit him at first. He had noticed that he had started spending more and more time at the bakery. It had started with conversations with the employee who gave him his cake. Hello. How are you? We have a new flavour, care to try it? Is that a new umbrella? Yes. They became longer. More pleasant. And Mycroft, as time went on, could no longer decide if he wanted to buy cake, or have a conversation. Maybe it was both. It could be both. There was no shame in that, was there? After all, he had admitted it himself: some goldfish could be _quite_ interesting.


	2. Hudson and Holmes

Although his work was exciting, even life-threatening, Sherlock Holmes lived a fairly simple home life. His flat wasn't very special if one could look past the experiments that filled his kitchen. No pets, no expensive furniture (other than a lot of scientific equipment), and no women. For the most part, anyway.

Downstairs lived Mrs. Hudson. Her husband had been "gone" for quite some time now, and she contented herself by living an equally simple life, as she lived alone. However, Sherlock's presence had changed that quite drastically. She could be making tea one moment, then find herself staring down the barrel of a gun the next. She had had the clean away more blood stains than coffee stains in the flat upstairs and had come face to face with strange men more times than she would like to admit.

Anyone would think that such a quiet, simple woman would resent a man for turning her life upside down. But, truth be told, she didn't. It was difficult. Gunshots, fingers in the fridge and bombs going off at all hours of the day would anger any normal person. However, at the end of the day, the excitement made her happy. Her friends would stare at her with huge eyes as she told them about being held hostage. They would gasp when she would mention the body parts in the fridge. They would giggle as she spoke of the good looking police officers she had had the pleasure of meeting… Any difficult experience one can get out of alive is an exciting memory, after all. Well, for the most part, anyway.

The first week she had met Sherlock was full of strange experiences. They were no different from the ones she lived through now, but as they were new to her, they had stained her memory vividly. Ha had indeed put her husband on death row. But what he could do to a woman's private life was more extraordinary.

On the first day, after the furniture had been put in place, Sherlock had stepped out. "A walk, Mrs. Hudson. And don't try getting in touch." She couldn't help it. Lestrade had called Sherlock's landline and she had answered. It was an emergency of epic proportions. A well-known person was being held hostage, their house had been burnt down and their car was missing. Sherlock hadn't given him his new phone's number. She told Lestrade that Sherlock wasn't home. She then sat silently. Should she tell him to call his mobile? Yes? No? She decided that the hostage's life was more important than Sherlock's walk, and told Lestrade to call his mobile. Two days later, Sherlock came back home with a black eye and a sprained wrist. His ringtone had blown his cover.

Three days later, she heard a small explosion upstairs. For some odd reason, Sherlock simply slipped downstairs and walked away, leaving his door locked. He never spoke of it, and she never asked. But the strong smell of burnt eggs told the whole story. He probably considered the fact that boiled eggs explode in the microwave was useless. It couldn't solve a murder. It could cause one, though. That of a man's ego. She was always thankful towards him for getting her… her prick of a husband off of her hands, and ever since Sherlock had seen that she could keep to herself, he had gotten fond of her as well.


	3. Molly and Tom, but now just Molly

"Have you stabbed your fiancé in the hand with a fork?" If you answered yes to this question, then, like Molly Hooper, 31, you probably no longer truly love your fiancé.

Molly just could not come to terms with her newfound feelings. Tom was… perfect. When she was introduced to him by her friends, there were butterflies. Her ears got hot and her palms, sweaty. He smiled, and she smiled back. Everything just seemed perfect. But perfect isn't real. It never really was. It had happened so gradually. It was like waking up and realizing, oh, your hair is a lot longer than last year. She couldn't see that everything was changing. Or rather, that she was changing. And you cannot truly see yourself unless you're willing to accept that you are changing. She was oblivious toward her own person. How embarrassing that is for a grown woman…

Tom was like a true Prince Charming. He was kind and childish at times, loving and respectful toward her. And then Sherlock came back. He came back. She knew he would. But that was beside the point. She knew that her relationship felt different after Sherlock had come back. It was like she stepped outside her relationship and looked in. And what she saw was an awkward woman and an even more awkward man. His childishness was annoying at times. His respectful attitude started to seem more like a strange fear of "Molly". Like he had no backbone.

What was it like, solving crimes with Sherlock? It was like finding something that her life had been missing. Adventure. Intellectual stimulation. A "partner-in-solving-crime". And then she would go home and have none of that. Tom wasn't a murder-mystery. He wasn't even a mystery. He was as mysterious as the process used to fill jelly doughnuts. Kindness, smiles, love, sure. But that was it. That was all. It was as though playing detective had ruined playing house. The dangerous game was more interesting than the simple, easy-going one. But she couldn't admit it. She was over Sherlock. Tom was her number one. It was probably the adrenaline.

But what about John's wedding? She shouldn't have been embarrassed by his stupid hypothesis if she had really loved him. Love is inherently blind, even toward the stupidity of the loved one. Or maybe, love is blind, until an older loves come back and you see what you have been missing out on. She felt terrible behind her fake smiles and giggles. She had filled her head with the idea that she was happy, that she had moved on, but she hadn't. How could such a feeling be explained? All those years of not really going for it with Sherlock had ended abruptly, with no twists, no surprise ending, no result. When he had faked his death, she knew it was too late. She had to move on and lock away her disappointment. No, she needed it. She wanted to be happy so very badly because she hadn't been with her fruitless crush on the detective. She needed to feel the love Sherlock hadn't given her. And she found it in Tom, who was like the Eiffel Tower in Las Vegas: he was like the real thing, but wasn't. Just seeing Sherlock had broken the illusion. She came face to face with unrequited love. She felt 16 again, for those first few seconds of her meeting with Sherlock. She was sad for no reason, longing, as though she had something to long for. Nostalgic. She felt wronged, even though she had no reason to, seeing as though she had helped him "die" and didn't even have an actual "thing" with him to begin with. It was like having a crush in high school, having him leave, going out with another guy, then seeing your first crush again, only to realize that you only accepted new love in order to replace something you suddenly realize is irreplaceable.

But feeling that way made her a jerk. She had to fake happiness and smiles, because if she didn't, it meant that she had used Tom and that she was evil. All those feelings kept inside, where they belonged. Or did they? Not quite. She knew it. She was an adult, after all. Acting childish around Sherlock, not risking anything by not saying "Hey, let's have dinner", had made her unhappy. She couldn't keep acting immaturely. So she broke it off with Tom. It was the adult thing to do Maybe she couldn't have Sherlock. That was fine. She could at least try to actually get over him for real this time. She could try to make herself happy again. She knew she couldn't do that by pretending that she was.


End file.
